Shall I have jealous thoughts to nurse,
When I behold a rich man's house?
Not though his windows, thick as stars,
Number the days in every year;
I, with one window for each month,
Am rich in four or five to spare.

But when I count his shrubberies,
His fountains there, and clumps of trees,
Over the palings of his park
I leap with my primeval blood;
Down wild ravines to Ocean's rocks,
Clean through the heart of No-man's Wood,